Squib
by Sociially-Diisoriiented
Summary: Araminta knows, though she does not know how she know, that she will not be a slave forever.


Araminta woke in the dark as she had for as long as she could remember. The floor was cement and always freezing. The blanket she was allowed to keep acted as her mattress and covers and did very little to keep the cold at bay; she'd had the same blanket for so long that it had begun to fray at the seams. Araminta did her best to be careful when handling her blanket now, folding it and storing it away where it would not risk being disturbed. She did not know if her Master would care to replace it once it had frayed away to nothing. After all, they only allotted her one pair of shoes, trousers and shirt a year and seemed not to notice when her pants began to tear, even though it would take but a flick of their wands to repair them.

Araminta slept in the basement where Master Burke stored most of his dark artefacts and inventory for his shop. It was part of Araminta's duties to keep these items dusted and to notify him of any unusual occurrence in some of the more volatile objects. Araminta dreaded this daily task for not all of the artefacts were encased in protective cages or charms, and it was not unusual for artefacts to burn her fingertips or injure her in other various ways. And if Araminta did not meet her Master's approval, he was not averse to disciplining her. Depending on his mood, he may make her rescrub an floor or he may torture her using his prefered method: the Cruciatus curse.

It was a rare day that passed without either her Master or Mistress punishing her in such a manner. Her Mistress, especially, seemed fond evoking the words "_Crucio_!"

Mistress Burke always looked at Araminta as though she had personally affronted her and must suffer the consequences.

Araminta could not recall a day when her Mistress had been less than cruel to her. In fact, Araminta could not recall anything from before she joined this household to serve the Burkes even though she knew, somehow, that she had been eleven years old when she had begun working under their thumbs. How she knew this, Araminta did not know.

There were other things Araminta did not know or could not explain. She could not explain, for example, the sensory memories that would periodically surface to her conscious mind: a gentle caress, the twinkling of an amused eyes, the satisfied sigh after a delicious meal. She did not know, either, from where this voice came in her mind that told her that her name was Araminta.

Certainly, no one had ever called her such a name that she could recall. Her Master and Mistress and all those who knew her (and there were not many, for Araminta was always banned to the basement when company was invited) called her Squib. It was always spoken in the most derogatory of manners, lacking any kind of warmth or respect, and Araminta did not know how she had gathered that this was not her name, but somehow she knew.

She knew other things, too, like exactly how Mistress liked her tea, even though she could not remember having ever been told, and to never look Master in the eyes. It did not save her from being punished, but Araminta suspected that she escaped much more punishment she would have otherwise received.

And there was one more thing this mysterious internal voice whispered to her (and this Araminta tried not to listen to for it was too painful to hear but the whisper was too sweet to ignore completely): that she would not be a slave forever.

Araminta did not know how she knew the word slave. She had most certainly never heard it spoken and she could not have read it anywhere because she did not know how to read. She often liked to peak at Master's newspaper whenever she found herself alone in a room with a paper left out, but it was only to take in the pictures. Her eyes would gaze over the neat tiny black print, and though a vague sensation of familiarity would wash over her, the printing never revealed their secret to her. But Araminta liked looking nevertheless, and the voice encouraged her to keep doing it, and so Araminta did.

One day, Araminta watched, entranced, as a beautiful woman with voluminous curly hair stood on a platform with a House Elf, although it was unlike any House Elf Araminta had ever seen: this House Elf was clean, wearing a tailored three-piece suit, a watch and polished shoes. Both the woman and the House Elf were smiling and shaking hands.

_She is the one_, Araminta sensed the voice telling her. _She is the one who will save me._

Araminta did not know how she would ever meet this woman who was to save her, but she did not worry herself over it. She trusted the voice. It had already proven itself infallible to her and always steered her right. Already, a new bit of information came to her. As Araminta knew that her name was Araminta, she suddenly knew that the woman from the photograph was named Hermione Granger.

_Hermione Granger._

Araminta had no way of validating this new revelation, but she reveled in it nonetheless. She whispered it to herself as she dusted, cleaned, and scrubbed the house over. She whispered it to herself as she lay shivering with cold at night, unable to fall asleep. She whispered it to distract herself when her stomach rumbled and her body grew weak from hunger (for she only received two meals a day and they were never enough to push back the painful grip of hunger).

But Araminta knew she had a plan; she just did not know the plan. She just knew that her role was to stay alert. When Master Burke left his study, Araminta entered it to tidy up after him, and when she found a bit of virgin parchment from the lot he had thrown out, she would quickly tear off the piece, stick it down her trousers, and rush to the basement at the first opportunity to hide it in her carpet. She did the same one day when, cleaning, she found an old quill Mistress Burke had lost a few weeks back. Knowing it would not be missed, Araminta ran it down to her secret spot. She found herself a little container and surreptitiously filled with ink from Master Burke's study, taking only the tiniest bit of ink a week as to not arouse suspicion.

Araminta did not know how to write, and yet she found herself dipping the quill into her ink and tracing over the bit of parchment paper she had accumulated. Imagine her surprise when she produced letters that looked like the ones she observed in the newspaper. They were not as neat and tidy, but they were recognizable even to her untrained eye. Araminta did not know what she wrote, but she did know that it was not her place to wonder. By now she knew enough to know that she was but the vessel and that her true Master was the quiet whisper in her mind.

For weeks, Araminta laboured diligently over her parchment even though it meant sacrificing the few hours of sleep she had. On the night she used her last slip of parchment paper, Araminta knew what she had to do.

The following night, she snuck out of the basement and made her way to her Master's owlery way up in the mansion's attic. She knew, beyond a doubt, that if anyone caught her (even a House Elf was sure to tell Master Burke), it would mean death, or torture until she wished she were dead.

Araminta clumsily tied her parchment to a random owl's leg, using the string Master Burke always kept in the owlery. Her heart beating, terrified of speaking lest she wake her Master or Mistress slumbering away on a lower floor, Araminta leaned in as close to the owl as she could and whispered, "To Hermione Granger."

She fled the attic before the owl had even left its perch.

For days, Araminta's heart beat wildly in her chest. She could barely inhale deeply enough to keep herself from suffocating. She was terrified she would be found out. When the days passed and no one descended on her with vengeful wrath, Araminta allowed herself to breathe more easily. And then she became worried that she had not tied the parchment securely enough and all her careful work had scattered down on some desolate field, never reach its destination.

But time passed and nothing happened. Perhaps Hermione Granger had never received the letters. Perhaps she had, but Araminta had written only nonsensical dribble and Hermione Granger put it off as a bad prank. Perhaps Araminta had written sense but Hermione Granger had not believed her. Perhaps she had believed her but could not find her.

Whatever the case may be, Araminta finally conceded that she did not know and could not know and after months of wondering and fretting, she stopped thinking about it all together.

—-

Time did not mean much for Araminta. One day was much like the next and while she had a concept of days and weeks and months from hearing her Master and Mistress talking, they did not mean much to her.

A lot of time passed after Araminta's attempt to contact Hermione Granger. How much Araminta did not know, except that it was a lot. She grew taller. Her body became curvaceous. Although she tried to hold onto the voice that had sustained her for so long, Araminta could feel it begin to slip away from her. It spoke to her less often than before and when it did speak, it sounded quieter and further away each time.

One day, the door to the basement opened very early in the morning, so early that Araminta had not yet risen.

In the doorway stood a tall, intimidating woman with her hair tied back. Behind her stood three men that Araminta had never seen before. Araminta pulled the blanket closer to her and shrank back against the wall. She did not recognize the woman from the photographs.

"Araminta," the woman said. Her voice was warm and soft and Araminta allowed the hope that jumped in her chest to bloom. That was her name! How did this woman know her name? "My name is Hermione Granger, and I have come to take you out of this place."

—

Araminta learned later that Hermione Granger had received her messages, that she had believed her and had jumped into immediate action.

But one did not simply barge into a citizen's private dwelling demanding an audience with their resident Squib, and they certainly did not barge in to take their Squib away, either.

Hermione had to work carefully so that the Burke's would not suspect Hermione of targeting Araminta, their Squib, or they might seek to punish her. Hermione also recognized what Araminta lacked the knowledge to know: that if Araminta was enslaved, other Squibs were most likely enslaved as well, and Hermione wanted to try saving them as well.

But bureaucracy, even Wizarding bureaucracy, was a slow, cumbersome machine and it took time—much longer than either Hermione or Araminta would have liked—to put in place the proper requirements and approvals to obtain a warrant without any information being leaked to the Burke's circle of friends or the media.

As best as they could figure, Araminta had sent Hermione her cry for help when she was thirteen years old. She was sixteen when Hermione came and rescued her.

Later, Hermione showed Araminta the messages she received from her. By then, Araminta had been placed in a Muggle school and was learning to read.

Chills crawled up her spine as she took in the rudimentary spelling, the broken sentences and the wavering, childlike scrawl of her former self; when she had been guided by nothing other than a soft whisper inside her mind, that she had trusted blindly if for no other reason than there was nothing else she could cling to for hope:

_I squib_

_I slave_

_Pleese hep_

_Save me_

_I squib_

_I Araminta Burke_

* * *

Word count: 2,058

Prompt: You may choose either upright or reversed, and your plot must revolve around the meaning of the tarot card given. I chose upright: The High Priestess — Intuitive, Unconscious, Inner Voice (Quidditch League Competition Round 8)

**Inspired by **slave narratives like Frederick Douglass's Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave and Robert Sadler's The Emancipation of Robert Sadler: The Powerful True Story of a Twentieth-Century Plantation Slave both of which I was reading at the beginning of this round.

(not written explicitly in the fic but am hoping it was implicit enough to be deduced through reading: the Burke's Obliviated Araminta when her Hogwarts letter did not arrive and their worst fear of her being a Squib was proved to be a reality. Although Obliviation worked in that she forgot they were her parents and she forgot how to read, all that knowledge was still simmering in the background (maybe because Master Burke was not very talented at Obliviation) which is how Araminta was still able to write enough though she could not remember she knew. But she had her inner voice, the remnants of her old self, to guide her!)


End file.
